


Ades Fidelis

by HarmoniousConvergence



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarmoniousConvergence/pseuds/HarmoniousConvergence
Summary: After saving the wizarding world from Voldemort just a few months before, public opinion has turned against Harry Potter due to his involvement in an extreme act of dark magic. Nearly everyone has deserted him, and he contemplates a dreary holiday alone and isolated, until a certain bushy-haired witch arrives just in time for Christmas Eve.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 29
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger, and all the other characters belong to JKR.
> 
> Author’s Note: This will be a short romance fic (likely 6 chapters) with some Christmas fluff.
> 
> Please note that the title is not a typographical error. Although clearly inspired in part by the Christmas carol with the traditional Latin title “ _Adeste Fideles_ ” (“O Come, All Ye Faithful”), the phrase _ades fidelis_ is a singular imperative instead of plural. Rather than a command to a group of faithful people to draw near, _fidelis_ therefore implies a single faithful person. Outside of a liturgical context, the word also doesn’t necessarily mean “having faith,” but rather denotes a general concept of fidelity. Furthermore, the verb _adesse_ in this context would take on a rather specific connotation beyond its general meaning of “being present at or near someone” when coupled with _fidelis_. I’ll just quote the relevant sense of _adesse_ from Lewis and Short’s _Latin Dictionary_ : “To be present with one's aid or support; to stand by, to assist, aid, help, protect, defend, sustain.” That definition is a pretty good description of the “faithful one” the title references here.

The day was cold, gray, and bleak. 

_Not unlike many of the frozen mornings the previous winter_ , thought Harry, when he and Hermione had witnessed the days gradually become shorter and shorter in their relentless march toward the solstice. Last year, alone in the wilderness and succumbing to fatigue from their continuous watches, they hadn’t even noticed the subtle turn when the days began to grow again. It wasn’t until they arrived at Godric’s Hollow that they even realized it was already Christmas Eve.

Yet as Harry stared out through the frosty glass of the drawing room window at 12 Grimmauld Place, watching giddy passersby filled with holiday cheer and others bustling about on last-minute errands, he was certainly conscious of the date today. During his upbringing with the Dursleys, Christmas was at best a time for him to be shuffled off and hidden from the extended family. Harry was all too happy to spend most of the day alone in his cupboard. No laughing or crying—not even a peep—and he could avoid attention. At worst, it could be a time when Uncle Vernon drank a bit too much and might take a swing at him over some trifling matter. Of course, the concept of presents for him seemed absurd to Vernon and Petunia.

Since then, Harry had come to think of Hogwarts as his home for Christmas for several years. Christmas became about new jumpers for Ron, Hermione running in wearing her pajamas and bearing a pile of gifts, and Hogwarts decorated with greenery and candles. Then the disruptions of the war came and went: holidays were a luxury temporarily forgotten for all.

But Christmas tomorrow would return Harry to the solitary existence he grew up with. Briefly hailed as a kind of savior, he was the newest pariah of the wizarding world. And he had only himself to blame for it.

Still, he was prepared: it wouldn’t be like the happy Christmases of some past years, but at least he had his own home and could do what he wanted. And right now, he didn’t want to do much of anything at all.

“Master,” a voice called from behind him. “Master Harry?”

Harry closed his eyes. He couldn’t deal with anyone right now, especially not someone with the absurd attitudes and behavior of Kreacher. Taking a deep breath and not turning around, he muttered, “Yes?”

“Would Master Harry like anything for breakfast?” said Kreacher.

Harry opened his eyes again. “Nothing. I told you that before.” Maybe he could placate the house-elf and make him go away. “Just... please bring me some tea here.” He waited for Kreacher to respond, but—hearing nothing—he turned to face the house-elf, who was standing with an odd posture, staring at him. “Is there something else?”

Kreacher slowly approached and held out a small box, presenting it to Harry. “Kreacher thinks Master Harry should eat. It’s nearly noon, and Master does not look well.”

The wizard wasn’t quite sure what to make of Kreacher’s strange attitude and unprecedented expression, which appeared to be a look of sadness and perhaps even sympathy. Harry took the box and opened it to discover a selection of chocolates. In confusion, he asked, “What is this?”

“Happy Christmas, Master Harry.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as he glanced up from the box in astonishment. “This… is a present?”

Kreached bowed formally. “Kreacher saw as Master defended the wizards and even the house-elves. Master risked his life and does not deserve to be forgotten by all.”

 _It has come to this_ , Harry thought. The ancient insane house-elf was taking pity on him at Christmas. “Thank you, Kreacher,” he said with a sigh. “That is very thoughtful.” In past years, Harry would have wondered if the chocolates were poisoned, though Kreacher had shown his loyalty in the past months. “But you will still take the _whole_ day tomorrow. Do not attempt to do any work for me or this house.” 

After his role in the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had convinced Kreacher to accept a small salary in exchange for his continued work at Grimmauld Place. While initially insulted, Kreacher agreed when told the other option was being freed completely and asked to leave. Harry also informed him that he must agree to take a few days off each year to do something that _he_ wanted to do. Harry didn’t learn much about Muggle traditions growing up, but he knew that even Ebenezer Scrooge would give Bob Cratchit off the entire day for Christmas.

Kreacher shuffled his feet and appeared disappointed, apparently assuming his gift would be a way to get out of this obligation. “Kreacher will scrub twice as hard for the entirety of next week,” he grumbled.

Harry turned back toward the window and tried not to roll his eyes. “Fine,” he muttered. “Just bring the tea and then leave me alone.” A couple minutes later, he moved to the sofa near the center of the room and closed his eyes. His head ached, and he felt exhausted. Sleep came only at odd hours in the past couple weeks, almost returning to the kind of irregular schedule he had experienced on the Horcrux hunt a year before. The darkness of night seemed more likely to bring actual _nightmares_ , ironically enough. They had lessened for a while over the summer, but with his recent isolation, the horrors of the war and Voldemort had returned.

Just as he was about to drift off, Kreacher appeared and set down a tray with a teapot, creamer, sugar bowl, spoons, and two teacups with saucers. As Kreacher arranged the china on the table, the noise roused Harry, who stared quizzically at the house-elf. _Was Kreacher planning to join him?_ After the unprecedented kindness of the gift a few moments before, Harry didn’t know what to expect.

But as soon as the house-elf had finished laying the tea service out, he said, “Master has a visitor waiting.”

“I told you I don’t want to see anyone,” Harry said in annoyance. “Please tell whoever it is to leave.”

“Kreacher does not think _anyone_ could make her leave,” replied Kreacher dryly.

Harry began to stand up to clarify his orders, but then realized there was only one person in the world Kreacher would have dared to defy his wishes for in the first place, just as Hermione appeared at the door to the drawing room, still in her winter coat.

“Harry!” she shouted, rushing over and pulling him into a crushing hug. “I’m so sorry, but I simply couldn’t wait,” she said quickly over his shoulder. “Kreacher told me I needed to stay downstairs, that you weren’t seeing anyone, but it’s been a couple weeks since you’ve responded to my owls, and weeks and weeks since I’ve seen you, and I’ve been so worried but couldn’t get away until the end of term, and Professor McGonagall needed me to help get things ready for those students staying over break, and…” She finally took a breath and pulled back, though still holding tightly onto his arms. “How are you? Are you okay?”

While part of Harry was thrilled to see her, Hermione’s whirlwind of energy was overwhelming at the moment. “I’m fine,” he muttered, as he sat back down. Hermione settled herself beside him, keeping hold of one of his hands while eyeing him carefully. “As I told you in my last owl, I just need some time away from everything.”

The house-elf reached out toward the teapot, before Hermione grabbed the handle first. “Thank you, Kreacher. I can take care of it from here.” Kreacher glared at Harry, who merely shrugged, leading the house-elf to pop away in a huff.

“If I weren’t Head Girl and if it weren’t this horrible year where we’ve been trying to rebuild things and get order back to the students at Hogwarts, you know I would have been here with you weeks ago,” Hermione said as she poured the tea. “I know you haven’t been seeing anyone—”

“No one _wants_ to see me,” Harry said. “Most people think I should be in Azkaban, and the rest are either scared of me or too scared to disagree.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Since I last wrote to you, aside from the occasional annoying reporter, no one has even tried to contact me, apart from you.”

“Hypocrites,” she said, shaking her head and finally removing her coat, laying it beside her on the edge of the sofa. “They owe their lives to you, and _this_ is how they show their gratitude.”

A burst of pain returned to Harry’s head, and he put his hand to his forehead, an act which appeared to cause Hermione great distress. “What’s wrong? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“It’s nothing. Just a headache.”

Hermione reached out to stroke his cheek. Harry couldn’t quite take the intensity of her stare; his gaze fell down to his lap. “I can tell you haven’t been sleeping,” she said.

“I just feel exhausted most days and nights,” he said quietly. He wanted to try to explain more, but he didn’t even know where to begin. “I’m sorry I’m not better company.”

She started to stand up. “Let’s go to your bedroom so you can lie down properly. I’ll get a warm flannel for your forehead and—”

He looked up to her, interrupting, “Hermione, you don’t need to be my nurse. We have tea, and you’ve come all this way...” The dull ache worsened and throbbed again though, causing him to close his eyes. He felt Hermione sit down again, running her hand across his forehead and cheek, checking him. Harry truly didn’t want to worry her—he knew this was just a normal tension headache, nothing like what Voldemort used to put him through. Still, it was distracting enough he couldn’t think properly at the moment. “Maybe I _should_ lie down just for a bit,” he said, opening his eyes to see her staring at him in obvious concern, “but you don’t need to stay with me… I just need to let my head clear.”

“I can wait. I’ll have tea while you rest.” 

Harry was grateful she at least took the hint to let him be for a while. Frankly, he felt a little embarrassed that she walked in on him in such a state. He hadn’t showered or shaved in days. Since he hadn’t really slept the previous night, he was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. Hermione had of course seen him at his worst, but he just needed a little time to pull himself together. Maybe she could just come back another time. “It’s Christmas Eve,” he said. “You should be with your family—”

“I already stopped to see my parents briefly this morning.” Taking his hand, she glanced up at him with that familiar look of determination. “Harry, I came here to see you, and I’m certainly not leaving until I know you feel better.” He could have predicted that she’d say that. “Besides,” she added, “there are plenty of books in the library here I can occupy myself with.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that. Over the summer, she had catalogued the Black collection and created appropriate safeguards on some of the more dangerous books. But she told him before she left for Hogwarts in September that there was still so much to explore, and there was nowhere that Hermione was happier than in a library. 

He nodded, giving in, before heading to the doorway. But he halted for a moment and turned half-around: self-doubt reared its head. “I just want you to know,” he said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Hermione’s eyebrows scrunched down. “Why would you even say that? Why would you think…” She shook her head. “Harry, that’s not why I’m here. You’re my best friend, and I told you I was coming.” Harry’s eyes dropped down to avoid hers as she sighed. “You haven’t been reading my owls, have you?”

He felt too ashamed to even shake his head; he hadn’t meant to ignore her. He just couldn’t deal with anyone, and reading her letters only reminded him of what he had done, why he had been thrown out of the auror training program and had been deserted even by his closest friends. But she was here now, and he was so grateful to her. Of course she’d come—she was the only person in the world who had never abandoned him. How had he been so stupid to ever think otherwise?

Harry finally built up the courage to meet her eyes again, and rather than a look of annoyance for neglecting her, he saw the most gentle and sincere concern on her face. “Just get some rest,” she said softly. “We’ll talk more later.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger, and all the other characters belong to JKR. The chapter below begins with a modified brief excerpt from _OotP_ , assumed to fall under Fair Use.
> 
> Author’s Note: I promised fluff, and we’ll get there soon. The remainder of the tale after this chapter will be a gradual crescendo of Christmas fluff. But we need a bit of backstory to understand the darkness Harry has fallen into before Hermione’s arrival.

_Dolohov grinned. With his free hand, he pointed from the prophecy still clutched in Harry’s hand, to himself, then at Hermione. Though he could no longer speak, his meaning could not have been clearer. Give me the prophecy, or you get the same as her..._

_“Like you won’t kill us all anyway, the moment I hand it over!” said Harry._

_A whine of panic inside his head was preventing him thinking properly: he had one hand on Hermione’s shoulder, which was still warm, yet did not dare look at her properly._ Don’t let her be dead, don’t let her be dead, it’s my fault if she’s dead...

_“Whaddever you do, Harry,” said Neville fiercely from under the desk, lowering his hands to show a clearly broken nose and blood pouring down his mouth and chin, “don’d gib it to him!”_

_Then there was a crash outside the door and Dolohov looked over his shoulder—the baby-headed Death Eater had appeared in the doorway, his head bawling, his great fists still flailing uncontrollably at everything around him. Harry seized his chance: “_ PETRIFICUS TOTALUS! _”_

_The spell hit Dolohov before he could block it and he toppled forwards across his comrade, both of them rigid as boards and unable to move an inch._

_“Hermione,” Harry said at once, shaking her as the baby-headed Death Eater blundered out of sight again. “Hermione, wake up…”_

_“Whad did he do to her?” said Neville, crawling out from under the desk to kneel at her other side, blood streaming from his rapidly swelling nose._

_“I dunno…”_

_Neville groped for Hermione’s wrist._

_“Harry, I feel nothin’. I dink… she’s gone.”_

_Harry felt his stomach begin to heave, as tears started to stream down his face. He needed to cry aloud for help, but his voice wouldn’t work. She was dying. No, she was dead. He shook her body before bringing his mouth to hers, giving her his own breath, begging her to come back to him. His best friend, that special brilliant little girl who gave him the hugs and kisses, the shining light in his life… the one person who showed him love was gone._

_Suddenly the scene changed: he was a little boy again in his cupboard, peeking out where he saw Aunt Petunia pull young Dudley into a hug. Aunt Petunia then shut Harry’s door, leaving him in darkness. Harry dared to open the door again, where he saw more boys from his primary school, hugged by mothers and sisters and aunts and teachers. And then he saw his friends from Hogwarts, hugging their boyfriends and girlfriends. Hundreds of boys and girls were around him, all of them in embraces but him, leaving him standing alone beside Hermione’s lifeless body._

_He needed to call out, to bring her back somehow. He hugged and kissed Hermione desperately, sorry he never had found ways to express how very much she meant to him. He didn’t understand how to give affection, as it had never been provided to him by anyone else. And he had been so afraid of rejection, afraid of losing her friendship… and now he’d never be able to tell her._

_Her body began to slip away from him into the blackness of a surrounding void. He couldn’t even hold onto her—she was gone… gone forever. He tried to scream for help one last time, but it was like the sound was caught in his throat, and he could only murmur and grunt as he tried to cry out again and again and again…_

* * *

Harry’s voice finally turned into an audible moan, and he woke himself up with a start. Another nightmare—the Department of Mysteries... again. Hermione was dead.

 _She couldn’t be dead_ , he thought. _She’s here, at Grimmauld Place._ Harry closed his eyes again and thanked Merlin and God and any supernatural being out there that might be listening: _she is safe_.

He took a few deep breaths while his heart rate settled down. His shirt was soaked in sweat, and his brain was still functioning slowly after his slumber, but Hermione was okay. That was all that mattered. Glancing to the window in his bedroom, the angle of the light told him that the day was already slipping away.

It was time for that shower, thought Harry, as he slowly pulled himself up to sit on the side of his bed. An irrational part of him—still immersed in the emotions of the dream—wanted to run to Hermione straight away. But he was a mess. He thought back to Christmas morning the year before, when he had awoken in a similar state to find Hermione’s face so close to his, sponging his brow in concern. Those kind brown eyes belied the warrior she had been at Bathilda Bagshot’s house, fighting Nagini and apparating them both away in midair before taking care of him all through the night. That night in Godric’s Hollow something had shifted inside him—he had even found the strength to reach out and embrace her, to reciprocate the affection she had always given him so freely.

But then he found out his wand had been broken, and a feeling of defeat threatened to overwhelm him. He had broken down in front of her once; he would not let it happen again. So he fled. He couldn’t stay and be comforted in those beautiful brown eyes, not when all seemed lost in the war. Even then, at his darkest hour, she reached out to him—brought him tea, forced him to talk, caressed his hair. And the next day they had spent the day together inside in their tent, huddled together for warmth as she cared for him. _What would have happened if Ron hadn’t returned that night?_

He didn’t know. But that time together with her had changed Harry forever. She had never given up on him, and he owed her his life many times over. He had desperately tried to protect her from Nagini at Godric’s Hollow, forgetting even to fight or protect himself. He simply _couldn’t_ let what happened at the Department of Mysteries transpire again. The _only_ thing that mattered was keeping her safe. And he had failed at that again at Malfoy Manor, where he had been forced to listen to her screams. After that, he made a silent vow and would never forgive himself if he let her ever come into harm’s way again...

Back in the present, Harry shook himself, trying both to escape bad memories and to bring his mind out of the fog that remained after a nap in the middle of the day. He wasn’t sure how long he had merely been sitting on his bed, trying to come to full awareness. A few hours of sleep weren’t enough to relieve his exhaustion. Maybe a shower _was_ what he needed. He pulled himself up from bed and made his way to the bathroom. 

When the hot mist began to strike his neck and shoulders, he finally felt alert. As the soap washed away days of sweat and oil and body odors, he started to feel normal again, no longer overwhelmed by the gloom and despondency he had felt for the past few weeks. But no amount of suds or scrubbing would be able to remove the stain on his reputation.

The facts of Harry’s exile from wizard society were apparently quite simple: he had cast the Cruciatus Curse. Outside of wartime. On an unarmed man. In front of witnesses. And he had not acted under the influence of the Imperius Curse. There were no excuses. Harry had used an Unforgivable Curse, and a half dozen aurors had testified to that.

To Harry, the facts were even simpler: Hermione was in danger, and there had been no other way. He did what was necessary, and he’d do it again a thousand times, no matter what the cost.

The details didn’t seem to matter to the press, but they were critical to Harry. After the Battle of Hogwarts, Antonin Dolohov was supposed to be on trial. He was supposed to go to prison. But there had been some absurd Ministry security lapse, created by Dolores Umbridge’s meddling and her complaints for a “fair and impartial” hearing for all Death Eaters. She ranted about unnecessary and cruel magical restraints, and none other than Percy Weasley had defended her yet again, in the supposed name of rights and justice. But it had all been a ploy orchestrated by others behind the scenes that ultimately sent Umbridge to Azkaban where she belonged and drove Percy out of the Ministry, likely for good.

Unfortunately, in the meantime, Dolohov had escaped. For months, he evaded everyone who tried to track him, but the rumors said he was out for revenge after the Trio, particularly Harry and Hermione. One day in November, a tip came in to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and Kingsley Shacklebolt brought the news to Harry himself on a Saturday afternoon. Dolohov was coming after Hermione, during a trip to Hogsmeade with the third-year students on their first weekend outing. Some sort of unusual magical bomb that could create an explosion large enough to level part of the town was apparently to be used. But it had been miniaturized and could be anywhere—even carried back to Hogwarts by an unsuspecting student.

Against Kingsley’s better judgment, Harry insisted on coming along on the raid to find Dolohov’s safe house. To their surprise, after breaching the wards, they found Dolohov himself among the men. But their initial interrogation was going nowhere as Dolohov simply kept laughing at them and calling their efforts futile. With little time remaining before the attack, Harry broke through the line of aurors, marched straight up to Dolohov and shouted _Crucio_ as loud as he could, sending Dolohov into such a fit of pain that the evil man cried out immediately for it to stop. But Harry couldn’t stop until he knew his point had been made, and a man like him would not break so easily. The aurors around him finally broke through Harry’s focus after several seconds. Dolohov ultimately told them not only how to stop the bombing, but also gave up dozens of remaining Death Eaters in hiding. His only condition for doing so was immediate protection from Harry Potter. Those present said they had never seen a man so terrified in their lives.

The Ministry, under Kingsley’s recommendation, initially attempted to keep the incident quiet, but some of the aurors present refused to keep the matter secret. Grown men who had been in the field for decades were horrified by the kind of power Harry had managed to wield—it was said by some that even Voldemort had never been seen summoning that level of dark magic.

Kingsley had tried to accept the blame for allowing Harry to be there in the first place, given Harry’s personal interest, but that did little to stop the rumors after the press got hold of the story. By the first week of December, Harry had officially been required to leave the auror training program. The only reason he hadn’t been tried and sent off to Azkaban was due to the intervention of several of Harry’s high-ranking friends, who struck a deal that he be allowed to go into a sort of probation as long as he submitted to psychological counseling and promised to forswear _any_ use of dark magic, no matter how minor. An experimental form of the Trace was re-imposed on him that would activate if he attempted to cast any dark spells.

Since that day, apart from his weekly visit to St. Mungo’s for “counseling,” Harry had rarely left Grimmauld Place. When he did leave, he went for short walks and stayed within Muggle areas of London. Otherwise, whispers followed him wherever he went: rumors that he might have the potential to be the next dark lord. The fact that the Ministry had released him seemed only to fuel speculation that the authorities were afraid of him, even if that wasn’t the case. 

Over the years, Harry had grown used to the fickle nature of public opinion, both at Hogwarts and in the wizard press. But he was taken aback at how quickly people distanced themselves from him, at least publicly. Even his adopted family, the Weasleys, had expressed little concern for him. Molly had already taken a dislike to him as soon as it became clear that he would not rekindle his relationship with Ginny after the war. At least Arthur had the courage to come see Harry himself, to wish him well, and to promise he’d do what he could to help him after he received counseling and public opinion began to shift. For now, especially given Percy’s shame and involvement too, the Weasleys couldn’t be associated with dark magic… and _criminals_.

The last straw for Harry was when Ron abandoned him. Ron was in auror training too, and he heard the first-hand accounts from those who had been there. The power behind Harry’s spell seemed to have spooked him. Ron came to Grimmauld Place with Harry the day he had been released from custody. But they almost immediately launched into an argument…

* * *

_“I don’t understand you anymore, Harry,” said Ron. “To use such dark magic…”_

_Harry admittedly couldn’t understand Ron’s reaction either. “Dolohov was about to kill Hermione—not to mention a crowd of children! Wouldn’t you have done the same?”_

_“You cast an Unforgivable!” Ron exclaimed in exasperation. “Don’t you realize why they’re called that?”_

_Harry rolled his eyes. “I’m not an idiot. But we used them during the war—”_

_“Not ‘we’,” Ron interrupted, “_ you _used them a couple of times, but even then, not at this level on an unarmed man—”_

_“UNARMED!?” Harry cried out. “He had a bomb and was going to blow Hermione up! Wouldn’t you have done anything to stop him too?”_

_“Not that.” Ron shook his head and appeared to try to make sense of it all. “Did you even consider using something else, even a hex that wasn’t so extreme?”_

_“There was no time,” Harry replied. Ron merely stared at him, obviously not satisfied by the answer. “You weren’t there.”_

_“I’ve heard from the people who were, Harry.” Ron’s voice dropped a bit lower, as he went on. “In the first war, there were stories of aurors using the Cruciatus Curse in dire situations. But not what you did.” He seemed to be contemplating how much to say, and he looked anxious, even a bit fearful. “Do you have any idea the level of hatred and darkness you must have to channel for that spell to have that effect? They say you had this crazed look, beyond the most powerful Death Eaters who have used those curses. They say that sweat was pouring off of you, from the sheer power and force you used. They claim they’ve never seen anything like it, even during the war.”_

_“It wasn’t like that. I didn’t...” Harry didn’t know how to explain; all of it had transpired so quickly, and even he hadn’t quite been prepared for the strength of the spell. “They’re exaggerating... because they’re scared.” That obviously wasn’t the right word to use, Harry thought, as Ron looked off, his leg shaking slightly in nervous agitation. Harry didn’t know what to do—even his childhood friend was treating him like he was some dangerous dark wizard who might attack him at any moment. “Look,” he finally added, “it was Hermione. We almost lost her before to Dolohov. I simply couldn’t take a chance—”_

_Ron had closed his eyes and nodded, as he said matter-of-factly, “So you tortured him.”_

_Harry let out his breath in irritation. “Yes, I did,” he replied frankly. “And I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, if the circumstances were the same.”_

_Ron kept nodding silently, his eyes still shut, apparently coming to terms with Harry’s answer. When he looked again at Harry, he hesitated to speak for a moment. Finally, he glanced away and said quietly, “Harry, the guards at Azkaban are saying you drove him mad. Whatever you did had the power to take a murderer and torturer and reduce him to a quivering imbecile. They say he just murmurs your name in fear every night.”_

_Harry didn’t know how to get through to Ron anymore. It was Hermione! Why couldn’t he see that? And Antonin Dolohov! The man who had almost killed her before, the one who almost took her away… forever. Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “And you’d defend this man who—as you yourself admit—murdered and tortured so many?” he asked._

_“Of course not,” Ron said immediately. “But I’ve seen the effects of the Cruciatus Curse.” He paused just for a moment, seeming to weigh a decision, before adding, “And you know who else was tortured? Hermione.”_

_“Get out.”_

_Ron persevered. “Do you really think she would approve of what you did?”_

_“I told you to leave.” Harry managed to keep his anger under control, but his patience wouldn’t hold much longer. How dare Ron compare him to Bellatrix Lestrange, someone who tortured for pleasure?_

_“I can’t defend you,” Ron said as he stood to depart. “I can’t defend this, Harry. In fact, I’m scared for you. You went too far.”_

* * *

A week later a reporter from the _Daily Prophet_ managed to corner Ron when he was visiting George’s shop. While Ron didn’t outright condemn Harry, he said on the record that he did not approve of the use of Unforgivable Curses and agreed that Harry should be monitored carefully.

The only person who never wavered in her support for Harry was Hermione. She refused to talk to the press, only repeating one phrase when asked: “I have no comment other than that no one has done more to defend Magical Britain than Harry Potter, and I trust his judgment.” But what she said meant little to the public debate, given that she had been the target of the attack. That shielded her from condemnation, but the _Prophet_ noted that she likely wouldn’t say anything negative purely out of her gratitude to Harry.

Disgusted when the wizarding world turned their back on him, Harry had stopped reading the papers weeks ago. He had stopped doing just about everything. As Hermione noted, he had even neglected her letters, a fact he now dearly regretted. Being attacked on all sides, he responded as he had done while a child: he barricaded himself inside his cupboard and shut out all the lights and all the noise. He would stay silent. Except his new “cupboard” was a dreary townhouse in Islington with the company of an old cantankerous house-elf.

Yet his situation had changed again. He wasn’t alone anymore: Hermione was here and likely waiting for him. As he stepped from the shower and walked back into his bedroom, his head now felt clear for the first time in several days. Glancing to the window, he could see orange sunlight reflecting outside off of a nearby building—the fog and grayness he had stared out into this morning apparently had lifted a bit in the outside world as well. Taking this as a good omen, he dressed quickly, smiling to himself at the thought of rejoining his best friend. At least he still had her, and that was what mattered most.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** Mr. Potter, Ms. Granger, and all the other characters belong to JKR.
> 
>  **Author’s Note:** Thanks for the many reviews and comments so far! I hope everyone reading is still in the holiday spirit... UPDATE: I haven't had as much time as anticipated to complete this fic over the holidays, but will definitely finish it in the coming weeks.

Harry finished dressing and spent a few minutes fussing with his perpetually unruly hair. On a normal day, he didn’t care much about it, but something inside him wanted to be a bit better than his typically disheveled self for Hermione. It was Christmas Eve, and he must have looked a fright when she arrived earlier. For once, he was also grateful to Kreacher for keeping up the house in some semblance of order, a task Harry had definitely not been capable of managing recently.

As he stared at himself in the mirror, repeatedly pressing down that one errant curl on the side of his head, a strange sensation was also flooding his mind—was that _music_? He thought he heard it in the shower, but dismissed it as an auditory illusion. But yes, he thought, there was the faint sound of music coming from somewhere. Finally giving up on his hair, he opened the bedroom door and wandered out into the hall, searching for the source of the sound. As he descended the stairs, the music became more distinct: it was a Christmas carol, sung by a choir. Harry eventually recognized it as “In the Bleak Midwinter,” as he drew near to the doorway of the drawing room.

There, he was met with an image almost out of Dickens. Harry had kept the drawing room in a somewhat Spartan state after much of the dark (and, in some places, literally _decaying_ ) Black memorabilia had been relocated. But in the hours he had been asleep, the whole room had been miraculously transformed into a sort of Christmas wonderland of greenery, lights, candles, and other holiday decorations, all around a roaring fire. In the center of it all was Hermione, singing along with the music emanating from a wireless. As she sang, she carefully placed ornaments on the enormous tree that was standing near the window, where Harry’s overstuffed chair had been this morning.

He didn’t know how much Hermione had brought with her and how much she had transfigured, but Harry thought he had never seen a more beautiful sight. Not just the warmth and holiday goodwill now pervading this typically dark and somber house, but his lovely best friend, her face awash with a serene expression of utter contentment and happiness as the orange glow of the afternoon sun refracted and created golden highlights through her brown hair. He stood in the doorway, silently observing as she meandered back and forth to a box of ornaments.

Although he rarely allowed himself to dwell on it, Harry had admired Hermione for years. Just seeing her sometimes brought him a kind of happiness that no one else could. On rare occasions when she actually spent time worrying about her appearance, she could become absolutely stunning in a conventionally beautiful way, as she had been at Bill and Fleur’s wedding the previous year. She wasn’t the sort of girl who would typically grace the cover of a magazine, though Hermione had told him that _Witch Weekly_ had tried to tempt her into an interview and even a photoshoot over the summer to discuss her role in the victory over Voldemort. But she had shied away, declaring the whole idea absurd, not to mention that she still carried a grudge over the whole Rita Skeeter nonsense they had published a few years earlier. 

Harry was admittedly somewhat glad she hadn’t done it: with a professional staff to give her a makeover, he was certain whatever photographs resulted would rapidly make her one of the most eligible witches in Britain. The selfish part of him didn’t want to share her attention, and the overly protective part of him worried about the threats that even greater celebrity would bring.

Still, on most days Hermione carried a confident and more natural beauty that Harry loved, all the more because she seemed to radiate happiness specifically around _him_. He could walk into a crowded room, and she’d instantly see him and break out into a smile that would cause his heart to skip a beat.

Given his earlier headache, he hadn’t even had time to take in her appearance before now. Her hair was pulled up in a loose and practical ponytail, exposing the creamy skin of her neck while she wandered back and forth. Her deep red cable knit jumper was plain but festive in color. As Hermione reached high on the tree to place another ornament, Harry found himself entranced by the bare skin in the small of her back that came into view, above the corduroy trousers that hugged her hips rather tightly. He looked away and closed his eyes for a moment: he _shouldn’t_ look at Hermione like that. She was his best friend—now a beautiful woman as well, but still the girl he grew up with.

With his eyes closed, Harry realized it had been a long time since he had heard Hermione sing. In his few meandering walks around Muggle areas in the past weeks, he couldn’t help but see the many displays in shop windows offering a new hit album entitled “Voice of an Angel,” which featured a young Muggle girl with a pure, clear tone. But to Harry, the angelic tone of Hermione’s voice had a simplicity and its own quiet beauty. Occasionally, she would hum a bit while studying, especially when she was working through a difficult problem, a trait Harry also found endearing. But at this moment, she was singing along with the final verse of the carol:

_What can I give him, poor as I am?  
If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb,  
If I were a Wise Man I would do my part,  
Yet what I can I give him, give my heart._

As the carol ended and an ancient chant tune that Harry didn’t know began to be sung, Hermione walked over to turn the wireless volume down a bit. She then paused to look out at the dying sun, its light now fully streaming through the window. Harry felt he had already spent far too much time surreptitiously leering at her from the doorway, so he slowly made his way across the room and joined her in the sunlight, whose warmth was more noticeable than he expected.

A smile crossed her lips, even though she kept looking through the window, as the fingers of her right hand threaded through those of his left. Harry simply couldn’t help continuing to stare at her now that he could see her face fully—maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t seen her in so long, but after the darkness and isolation of the past few weeks, it was like seeing some angelic vision come back into his life, amidst the warm glow of the setting midwinter sun.

“Apricity,” she said, laconically.

Harry’s brow furrowed as he now more directly turned his face toward hers. “Huh?”

“That’s the word you’re looking for,” she said, her eyes briefly glancing to him as she flashed a small smile. “Apricity.”

“Apricity?” he echoed.

“It’s my favorite word for this time of year: the warmth of sunlight on a winter’s day,” she explained, as if quoting a dictionary. “It’s warm and beautiful and lovely amidst the cold, dark world. That’s what you were thinking, right?”

Harry had to smile—how did she always do that? She always knew what he was thinking, even when he didn’t want her to. She didn’t need Legilimency; she just somehow _read_ him.

At his smile, the corners of Hermione’s mouth turned up. “I was just listening to the broadcast from King’s Chapel, which my parents play throughout the house on Christmas Eve every year.” She then put her arms around him, leisurely pulling him close, a contrast to her earlier frantic greeting. “It just makes me think of being a little girl, waiting for Christmas morning and the most wonderful things to come.” Her arms squeezed him harder for a few seconds, as she sighed contentedly. “I’ve missed you so much, Harry,” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. “You look better. Is the headache gone?”

“Yeah,” he nodded into her shoulder. With his arms around her, his hands had grasped her tightly, gripping into the knitting of her jumper a bit, and he had to force himself to relax. The memory of his recent nightmare was unconsciously causing him to hold onto her as if she might slip away at any moment.

But she was _really_ here with him now. Hermione’s enthusiastic embraces always had meant something special to him—he couldn’t even remember anyone ever hugging him before she had during their first year at Hogwarts. Still, on this particular day, after what he had been through in the past month, he couldn’t imagine a more wonderful feeling than having her in his arms. 

Ordinarily, after a few seconds, Harry would pull back from her. It often made him feel slightly embarrassed when she’d come running toward him and throw her arms about him, but this time he gave into the sensations and just basked in her warmth, with the soft wool of her jumper brushing against his neck. He kept waiting for her to let go, but she didn’t. If anything, it merely caused her to bury her face in his shoulder and clutch him tightly for a few seconds more. They simply stood there in the sunlight for nearly a minute, holding onto each other, swaying just a tiny bit in the midst of the festive scene she had conjured in his drawing room. As he breathed in, he swore she even _smelled_ like Christmas: some remnants of the evergreen sap from the tree were likely infused in her jumper from decorating the tree, and somehow there were also intermingled scents of cinnamon and ginger and nutmeg and…

“I’m sorry, I probably smell like a Christmas biscuit,” she said, finally causing him to pull back a bit at her latest feat of mind-reading.

Harry laughed as he shook his head at her in disbelief. “How did you know?”

She rolled her eyes, finally dropping her arms as she took his hand and led him to the sofa. “Well, I know that my neck smells like that because I used this strange moisturizer at my parents’ house earlier,” she said, tucking her right leg under her as Harry settled next to her. “My skin was dry, and I only realized how strong the odor was after I had already started applying it. I don’t know where my mum found it.” She interlaced her fingers with his again, as she leaned into his side. “And I know that _you_ were wondering about it because you were inhaling through your nose near said neck. It doesn’t exactly require Sherlock Holmes to puzzle out, Harry.”

He continued to marvel at her, before glancing about the room again, mystified that this was the same space he had occupied a mere few hours before. “You’ve been busy,” he noted.

“And _you_ were asleep for quite a long time,” she said in reply. “I hope you don’t mind. I did spend some time in the library, but... well, I felt this place could use a little sprucing up.” With a mischievous grin, she nudged his side as she glanced over to the tree, emphasizing, “Does it look appropriately… _spruced up_?”

He had to chuckle. What had gotten into her today? She seemed positively giddy. “You’re ridiculous. How long have you been planning that joke?”

“At least two hours,” she answered, her eyes bright. “You looked so sad and lost when I arrived; I didn’t know what to think. But I’m so glad to see you smile.”

“Well… _you_ make me smile,” he emphasized, returning her jovial smirk. “I feel like I’ve entered into some strange alternate universe, where everything’s happy and infused with the sights and sounds and, well... _smells_ of Christmas.” At that, he bent his head toward her and took a long, silly sniff of her shoulder, followed by a deliberate exhalation and exaggerated sigh. 

“Harry!” she exclaimed, giving him a shove backward and breaking out in a very un-Hermione-like giggle that made his heart leap. She shook her head at him before snuggling closer and putting her head on his shoulder, but Harry only wished he could make her laugh like that for hours. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to another carol on the wireless. Harry wondered to himself: _Was it even possible that seeing him after so long could also make her as exuberantly happy as it made him feel?_ The months since September had seemed like an eternity apart from her, after spending an entire year constantly in her company. They had only managed a few visits during the fall term, initially due to their conflicting schedules and Harry’s cautiousness about travel while Dolohov had still been at large. She of course came to see him immediately after Dolohov’s capture, but that felt like ages ago. During the Horcrux hunt, he had become used to her routines, her habits, and her continuous presence. Having her back with him today filled a void in his life, and he was now sorry that he had wasted several hours sleeping today when he could have been here, helping her.

Again, as if completely attuned to his thoughts, she rose from the sofa and asked, “Would you like to finish decorating the tree with me? There are just a dozen or so ornaments left, and I’d like to put some on the higher branches.” When he nodded his assent, she took his hand again, leading him back to the tree while the choir finished the carol. Hermione began quietly humming and then singing along as she carefully unwrapped the ornaments, arranging them in a smaller box. She motioned for Harry to join in—he would have preferred to just listen to her sing, but the smile she gave him when he added his weaker voice was worth it:

_The holly and the ivy,  
When they are both full grown,  
Of all the trees that are in the wood,  
The holly bears the crown._

_O the rising of the sun,  
And the running of the deer,  
The playing of the merry organ,  
Sweet singing in the choir._

As they sang together—or, rather, as Hermione sang while Harry mostly mumbled through the words, causing her to erupt in occasional fits of silent laughter—she handed the ornaments one at a time to Harry from the smaller box she was holding. Several times, she asked him to move a bauble to a different branch, often raising her arm and pointing while brushing up against him. He was beginning to find her closeness distracting, though he knew it wasn’t deliberate.

Trying to focus on something else, he glanced at the ornament he was currently holding, which had a complex colorful pattern on the indentation on the side and bore a bright silvery sheen inside the hand-painted surface. “I’ve never seen anything like these,” he said. “Where did they come from?”

“They’re antique mercury glass,” she said, surveying the tree for any noticeable gaps. “They used to belong to my grandmother. Aren’t they gorgeous? I found them two years ago when I was home at Christmas, and I thought it was a shame we never use them.” 

Harry was a bit taken aback to realize that Hermione was decorating his house with her own precious family heirlooms and not something she had picked up at a shop, as he assumed. He handled the remaining few ornaments more cautiously, until at last he brought a chair from the other side of the room, which allowed him to place the star atop the tree.

They both stepped back to examine the fruit of their efforts. Hermione leaned against him and put her arm around his waist; he responded by putting his arm around her back. Something about the lights playing on the silvery parts of the glass ornaments created a shimmering effect that Harry knew wasn’t magical, yet seemed more unique than any Christmas tree he had seen before. “It’s beautiful,” he said, glancing at the similarly lovely and radiant woman standing beside him.

Hermione turned her face up and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“For helping me with the tree,” she replied, blinking innocently.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “You did _all_ of this, and I only put up a few ornaments. And for that, I deserve a kiss on the cheek?”

“Do you think you deserve _more_?” she laughed. Hermione then gave him a sort of coy, lopsided smile that suddenly made him quite nervous, as he swore her eyes dropped to glance at his lips for just an instant.

Harry had never known her to flirt quite so openly with him before, and he wasn’t quite sure what it could mean. Certainly back during their time at Hogwarts, they had shared an occasional joke or some exchange that seemed like banter, generally ending with Hermione blushing a bit, before they’d just awkwardly resume whatever they had been doing before. But that mostly stopped once she and Ron began to have their ridiculous periods of seeming to date and then not date while doing horrible things to each other. Harry never wanted to get in the way of any of that.

Yet several times over the past year or so, particularly during the Horcrux hunt, Harry had felt like he and Hermione might actually share a kiss, a _real_ kiss. Sometimes they were just so close, when tension seemed high, and they just found themselves intensely staring at each other. But she was his best friend, and Harry always assumed he was imagining it all. He certainly didn’t want to risk turning things uncomfortable between them. And while she and Ron had their spats, they seemed like they had been on a path toward each other for several years.

That path grew even more bumpy in the last few months though. Over the past summer, she and Ron had finally begun officially dating, but every few weeks they’d have a blow-up, and Hermione would inevitably end up crying with Harry at Grimmauld Place. Harry simply didn’t know what to do, as Ron would show up a few hours or a day later and they’d be happy again together for a while. When Hermione went away to Hogwarts in September, they appeared to leave things in limbo, and Harry never wanted to ask. The whole situation had made things awkward among the three of them, and Harry figured he’d simply wait and stay out of it until the two of them sorted out what they wanted. That’s what he had told both of them at the end of the summer, as he was a bit tired of it all: he didn’t actually know what was happening at the moment. He had assumed Hermione was just visiting him for the day and would head off to join the Weasleys that evening.

But the look in her eyes right now was unlike anything he had ever seen before. There was something mischievous and silly about it all, so perhaps it was just a joke, daring him a bit after their earlier banter. Though there was part of him that had dreamed of her lips and how they’d feel on his, he didn’t want to risk spoiling the moment by doing something wrong, not to mention creating awkwardness with the one friend in the world he still had. And he certainly didn’t want to bring up _Ron_ , which would spoil the moment, no matter what Hermione had to say on that matter.

Aside from all of this, there was the fact that Harry knew he was absolutely terrible at reading women and romantic situations, and his previous romantic experiences had begun clumsily at best. His lack of experience with affection made him irrationally terrified of doing the wrong thing and incapable of finding ways of expressing what he felt. He even had Hermione herself to blame for making him realize how clueless he truly was. And now it was _she_ who was staring at him with those— _what were they?_ _expectant? mirthful? joking?—_ eyes. In the end, he still had no idea what to do.

After all of this raced through his mind in the course of a second, he did something he had never done before—he drew Hermione into his arms and kissed her forehead lightly, trying to convey at least a little of how much she meant to him. His heart finally began to slow down and relax a bit when it appeared to be the right choice: he felt her arms ascend underneath his and grasp his back near his shoulder blades. Then she turned her head into his chest and voiced an audible little noise of happiness while she sighed contentedly.

A few seconds later, he felt her hands begin to move on his back, caressing him as she pressed her body even closer to his. If _this_ was what she meant by deserving “more,” Harry was definitely happy to receive it. 

Unfortunately, that moment proved to be short-lived, as he heard a cough from the other side of the room. “Master?”

Harry let out an audible grunt. _Can’t he just leave me alone?_

Thankfully, Hermione pulled back and patiently dealt with the house-elf. “What is it, Kreacher?”

“Miss Hermione said to come and announce when dinner would soon be ready,” said Kreacher, who gave an unprecedented bow seemingly in Hermione’s direction. Was it Harry’s imagination, or did the house-elf actually look apologetic for interrupting? “Dinner can be served in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Kreacher,” Hermione said, “we’ll be down soon.” Kreacher immediately departed with a crack, leaving Harry staring at Hermione with a confused expression. “What?”

Harry shook his head. “After all of his previous ranting about Mudbloods and how you’d defile this house with your very presence, I… well, I’m beginning to think he might like you.”

Hermione smiled, as she began to lead Harry back to the sofa. “Actually, Harry, believe it or not, he likes _you_. We talked for just a bit while you were asleep, as strange as that was. He’s worried about you. I think he’s afraid if you isolate yourself too far, you’ll go a bit mad like some of the other Black family members he’s served.” She folded both of her legs under her while sitting, then guided him down next to her. “He _tolerates_ me because my arrival was the first thing that made you do _anything_ in weeks.”

“Perhaps,” Harry replied. “But what’s this about dinner?” Harry was admittedly quite happy to learn Hermione wouldn’t be leaving just yet.

“Since you told him he can’t work on Christmas, Kreacher’s apparently been planning some sort of special meal for you today. I told him to warn me early so I could wake you if you still weren’t up.” She looked over at him, cupping his face. “Harry, you’ve lost weight. You look almost as thin as you were last winter, and that’s when we didn’t even have enough food to eat. I’m worried about you too.” Her thumb continued to gently stroke his cheek.

He closed his eyes at her touch. “I’m fine,” he said. When he lifted his eyelids to look into the concerned brown eyes staring so intently at him, he really wanted to say that she made him feel _alive_ , that she meant _so_ much to him, so much he couldn’t even figure out a way to tell her. But the anxiety and fear kept him from saying the truth in his heart. Instead, he merely clarified, “Really, I’m fine. With you here, I feel great.”

“I’m so glad,” she replied, before rising to turn the wireless volume back up. When she returned to the sofa, she added, “Just sit here with me for a few minutes before we go down. There’s time for just a couple more carols.” When she settled in beside him again, he obviously wasn’t close enough, so she took his arm and wrapped it about her shoulders while leaning her head into his side. Harry had rarely felt so close to her, so _loved_ by her. He didn’t know whether it was just that he had missed her so much, or if something was beginning to shift between them. At the moment, he didn’t want to think too much—he just wanted to _feel_.

As they sat in front of the fire, the light of the day now completely gone, with only the dull red glow from the embers and the lights of the Christmas tree lighting the room, Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes, attuning himself to the rhythm of the rise and fall of Hermione’s breathing next to him. All the nightmares seemed a distant memory— _she_ was here.

The music from the wireless began to build. Harry had always loved the singing at Hogwarts, but King’s College at Cambridge was at a different level entirely. He had never heard such beautiful harmonies, accompanied by the energetic playing of the organist. While the choir launched into the final verse of yet another carol, some of the boy singers shifted to a descant, soaring high above the rest of the chorus:

_All out of darkness we have light,  
Which made the angels sing this night._

Harry had never been a particularly religious person, but the glorious sound and the words resonated with him now as they echoed through the shadowy halls of Grimmauld Place. On previous occasions, Harry thought that the very sound of the name seemed to betray the character of his home, as if it really was a “Grim Old Place.” Yet these new tones carried with them a vibrancy and joy that the house must not have heard for many years. 

He _needed_ her to know how he felt. But what could he do—just blurt out “I love you!” to his best friend, even if it were true? _Who does that?_ Setting aside how that could be misconstrued, he just didn’t know if he could say those words aloud. The irrational fear kept him silent, but he felt the need to do _something_ more, so he found himself leaning over and kissing the hair on the top of her head. He was rewarded when Hermione responded by cuddling even closer into his side.

Harry only then realized that in the past few weeks he had perhaps allowed himself to believe what the rumors said of him—that his soul was steeped in darkness and only _that_ had allowed him to cast an Unforgivable Curse to save her. But surely protecting something as pure and wondrous as what he felt right now couldn’t be an act only of dark magic. Feeling the warmth of Hermione’s body pressed up against his own, a weight began to pass from him as the choir began their final crescendo... 

_All out of darkness we have light,  
Which made the angels sing this night:  
‘Glory to God and peace to men,  
Now and for evermore. Amen.’_


End file.
